He smokes ’til the air turns green – this jealousy is ferociously set on constant
He is reminding his mind of far superior times
Greying around the edges no doubt, hard as hell not to reminisce
Difficult not to try that little bit harder, to push this frail portion of his body to the limit
He is a wasted space with a frown where he really feels a smile should have set itself in glorious stone
His seventh mug of coffee – caffeine the other absolute go-to, the thing to fill his each and every day
Panic seems to be something he has become crazily accustomed too, just terrible soon as night turns to day again
The bleak evenings wear him right out, fighting not to fall misshapen atop that bed – where dreams do go to die
His only true friend, only real hug
And day will turn to night again, the penny having never quite dropped

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